


Los Angeles

by Qwyzm



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ace!Martin Crieff, Aromantic!Martin Crieff, Asexual!Martin Crieff, Benedict Cumberbatch's swim trunks, Cabinlock, Crossover, F/F, F/M, GERTI sure is a character...I tell ya, Gen, cracktastic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qwyzm/pseuds/Qwyzm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>GERTI and the crew of MJN Air fly to Los Angeles, where Martin Crieff plans to show off his new swim trunks. At the beach, he meets a woman... <i>The</i> Woman.</p><p>--<br/>Some Cabinlock based on Benedict Cumberbatch's glorious swim trunks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trunks

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a silly ficlet written on a whim as a bedtime story for strandedfashionista.tumblr.com  
> It grew from there, but he gets all the credit for the original idea.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin Crieff buys a new pair of swim trunks

Martin Crieff held tightly onto the small wad of money he had saved up from his moving service. He awkwardly moved through hallways of the store, looking to buy some new swim trunks. (His last pair had gotten destroyed in an embarrassing incident involving Arthur, a beach campfire, roasting marshmallows, and several mild burns.) He winced at the memory and nervously looked around. Right. He was in the correct section of the store now, men’s swimwear. He bit his lip and started poking through the small aisles between the racks. He brushed past all the designer trunks - far too expensive for his budget - and found himself in a small corner staring at particularly garish designs. He sighed, but set his chin squarely. He was Captain Martin Crieff, and nothing would change that, not even a horrid pair of trunks. He slowly walked down the line of marked down items, not paying any mind to where he was walking. He tripped on some shorts somebody had dropped on the floor and fell into a rack, first banging his head on the metal and later falling hard on his elbow.

“Gaa-oww!” he exclaimed. He blinked a few times and looked down at his feet, still tangled in the hot pink and blue striped shorts. “Er…” He felt his face grow hot and he weakly kicked the trunks away.

Nearby, John Watson heard the commotion. He looked up and followed the sound until he reached the lanky crumpled figure with hair almost as red as his face and a trickle of blood running down his forehead.

“John Watson, I’m a doctor. Do you mind if I…?” He touched his forehead around wear the blood seemed to be coming from. “It sounds and uh, looks as if you had quite a fall.”

Martin looked up at the man who was talking to him and nodded slightly, then stopped when it made his head throb a bit. “I’m er, I’m Captain. I mean, Crieff. Captain Crieff. Martin. My name is Martin.” When John touched his forehead, Martin reached up and brought his hand back down, discovering that his fingers were wet and red. “Oh,” he said faintly, dropping his hand.

John knelt down beside the man and said, “Well, nice to meet you, Martin.” He chuckled and took out a handkerchief he kept in his pocket at Sherlock’s request ‘In case of evidence.’ He began cleaning the small trickle off Martin’s face and lightly pressed the cloth against the wound. “Not the best circumstances, admittedly, but…at least it was lucky.”

Martin scoffed weakly. “Lucky? Not me.”

John shrugged and lifted the handkerchief, pleased to see the cut was fairly small and didn’t look deep. He pressed the cloth down again to slow the bleeding and asked, “You’re a Captain, you said? So am I.”

Martin brightened considerably and puffed his chest out a bit. “Yes, I fly aeroplanes.” He smiled and excitedly asked, “Do you, too?”

John shook his head slightly. “Ah, no. I was a Captain in the Army…but that’s brilliant! That you can fly, I mean.” He smiled down at Martin and checked his head again. The bleeding had slowed and it seemed like he was alright.

Martin’s face fell a bit when John said no, but he looked up in awe and partially in disbelief when John called him brilliant. “D-do you mean that?” A silly grin spread across his face. “D’you think it’s really brilliant?”

John smiled and nodded slightly. “Yeah! I wouldn’t be able to do that…Er, anyway, your head looks fine, but you might want to stop in to get it looked at. And you should keep this pressed on the cut. Light pressure,” he directed. He took his hand off the handkerchief and gave Martin a small salute. “Perhaps I’ll see you in the air, Captain.” He smiled and stood up, then helped Martin up.

Martin grinned and shook John’s hand. “That would be fantastic, sir! MJN Air, that’s our name. The flight company’s name. I don’t own it. I just fly for them.” He flushed slightly again and smiled sheepishly.

John nodded and said, “Right. MJN Air, I’ll remember that.” Looking around, he pointed at a pair of swim trunks with some birds on them. “Hey, look, birds. They fly too, eh?” He chuckled and patted Martin on the arm, then said goodbye and walked away.

Martin stood there for a minute after stuttering his goodbye, staring at the shorts John had pointed to. Birds, they flew too. And they were within his budget! Martin grinned widely and took them off the rack, proudly marching out of the swimwear section and looking for a register, feeling every bit of his Captain’s title.


	2. The Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flight to Los Angeles

Martin stared into the small mirror on the wall and straightened his tie and cap. He glanced nervously at the suitcase sitting on his bed. This would be the first trip with the new swim trunks.

After giving himself another once-over in the mirror, he gave a sharp nod and went to collect his suitcase. As he carried it down the stairs with some semblance of grace, he smiled to himself. Maybe this trip would actually go well! He kept smiling as he drove to the airport. Everything was great so far, maybe his avoidance of bad luck would continue into the trip.

…

Of course, there was no such luck.

During the flight to Los Angeles, Douglas had lied to the passengers, as usual, forcing him to speak with a Texan accent (and not a very convincing one, at that) and Arthur had nearly spilled tea all over the controls (that crisis was only averted because Martin threw himself in the path of the steaming liquid). To make matters worse - due to the incident with the tea - he had a bag of ice (which he apparently had to pay for once they’d landed) resting on his thigh creating a rather awkward damp spot. By the end of the flight, Martin was practically shaking with frustration.

After he landed the blasted plane and drawled the closing address, he shooed a smirking Douglas out of the cabin and stared straight ahead until Arthur came into the cabin and enthusiastically informed him, “They’re all gone, Skip! None of the passengers will see that damp patch on your trousers now.”

Martin squeezed his eyes shut and ground out, “Thank you, Arthur. My bag, please?”

Arthur was gone again in a flash, eager to try to follow the instructions. Martin took a few deep breaths and thought about the beach, what he’d been anticipating for weeks. He’d calmed down some by the time Arthur returned with his luggage. He thanked Arthur, sighed, and handed him a few bills to pay for the ice. He didn’t want to lose his job. He took hold of his suitcase and exited the plane, wincing and limping slightly with as much dignity as he could muster.


	3. The Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin goes to the beach wearing his new swim trunks.

When Martin closed the door behind him in his small hotel room at about 10:30 L.A. time (although it felt more like 6:30 pm due to jet lag), he exhaled in relief. He carefully removed his cap and meticulously hung up his uniform before he flopped onto the cheap bed, groaning as the old springs wheezed to accommodate his weight. He scrubbed his face and sighed. What a day it had been. First the horrible eleven-hour flight, the subsequent fiasco trying to find a cab, the tremendous fare that had decimated his funds and effectively made eating anything substantial a complete fantasy, and the always tedious struggle of checking in with reception. Why _did_ Americans find his accent so fascinating, anyway? He let out another light sigh and turned his head to look at his small suitcase. At least he didn't have to deal with baggage claim. His thoughts meandered and he laid on the bed silently for several more minutes, eventually drifting off to sleep.

When he woke, at first he was disoriented, and he floundered on the bed looking around, trying to figure out where he was and panicking over whether he'd be late for work. He saw the clock and relaxed, falling back limp on the stiff mattress. Right, it was 3:30 in the afternoon, he was in Los Angeles, and he had just had a five-hour nap. He silently thanked time zones for granting him an eight hour difference in his favour and lay on the bed thinking about what to do with himself for the rest of the evening.

After a few minutes, he heaved himself up and decided to start unpacking his case. He couldn't lay around in his vest and pants forever. Besides, he had to launder his uniform trousers. Short on cash or not, he wasn't about to show up to work the next day with stains on it. He lifted the battered bag onto the bed, inhaling sharply and wincing when it roughly brushed the burn on his thigh, then unzipped it and flipped back the top with a heavy sigh.

He did a brief double-take at the flash of bright orange and blue in his bag, then he realised that he'd brought his swim trunks in anticipation of going to the beach. He lifted them out of his suitcase and held them up, contemplating going to the beach. That would be relaxing, fun, a proper holiday thing to do, right? Maybe he could get some sun and stop looking quite so pale; at least then Douglas would shut up about his pale complexion.

With a small nod, Martin neatly laid the shorts beside his suitcase and made quick work of the remaining items. Lastly, he picked up his compact bathroom kit along with the trunks and took them to the small room in order to get changed.

Before donning the brand new shorts, he took a cursory look at the burn on his leg. It wasn't too serious, but it was still quite painful. He carefully stepped into the trunks and quickly applied some sunscreen. When he was done, he walked out of the bathroom and grabbed his flip-flops, sunglasses, and towel from his suitcase. Martin walked out of his room feeling fairly confident and ready for the beach. Most of all, he was looking forward to relaxing.

The beach was rather crowded, as it was late in the afternoon, warm, and an altogether beautiful day, but Martin found a spot to lie down his towel and take off the thin shirt he had been wearing. He sat leaning back on his elbows for a few minutes, eyeing his surroundings. There were people in the water, plenty of people lounging, children playing games, and off to the side there was some sort of game going on–it looked similar to badminton, but with a ball and paddles–and most importantly, nobody was staring, laughing, or really paying much mind to him at all. He smiled and gave a happy sigh, leaning back and closing his eyes for a while. It was nice, but not especially relaxing due to the cacophony of children yelling, gulls screeching, and the general din of chatter. He sat up and looked around again, then stood up when he spotted a boy flying a remote control aeroplane. He smiled and looked up toward the sky as he aimlessly walked around. Watching the toy plane buzz around brought back memories of when he was a boy himself, begging his mum or the other children for a chance to fly it himself.

Martin was jarred from his nostalgia when somebody cried, "Look out!" and moments later, he was struck in the shoulder by a small yellow ball. He cringed back a bit and yelped, more out of surprise than pain. He leaned over and picked up the ball, looking around to see where it came from. The players of the paddle game he'd been watching earlier were waving to him, so he yelled an apology and jogged toward them, flushing slightly.

"Hey, dude, it's alright. Sorry about that! You alright?" asked one of the fit, tanned players, who looked to be roughly university-aged students, late teens and early twenties.

"Er, yes, yes I'm fine. I-I wasn't paying attention, I'm sorry," stuttered Martin, placing the ball in the young man's outstretched hand.

"Hey, no problem. Wanna play?" The boy grinned and shot one of his friends a glance. "Mark's the one who can't control his swing, so I think Mark should be the one to let you try with his paddle."

He snickered and flashed a smile at Mark, who was rolled his eyes and shot back, "Shut _up_ , Pete."

The boy–Pete, apparently–simply flashed a smile and turned back to Martin. "So, whataya say?"

Martin looked between Mark, the other players, and Pete, then shook his head slightly. "Um... No, no, I don't want to interrupt. I don't want to be any trouble." He held up his hands and backed away a few steps, offering a sheepish grin. "I wouldn't know how to play, anyway."

One of the girls on Mark's team called out, "Oh, come on, we'll teach you! Just one game?" She smiled at him and pushed Mark forward. "C'mon, let him play. And anyway, he's hella cute. Way cuter than _you_ ," she teased, giggling.

Martin's eyebrows shot up and he stuttered, "Uh, er, um..." He felt his cheeks and the tips of his ears burn as he blushed again, pleasantly dumbstruck by the compliment.

Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back. "One game, eh?" He leaned in and murmured, "And hey, Jen knows what she's talking about. So, just in case you're interested, I wanna let you know that I agree." He winked at Martin and gently pushed him to the other side of the net.

Martin spluttered and flushed an even deeper shade of red, but was met by Mark and Jen on the other side before he could reply.

Mark grinned as he held out the paddle and wished Martin good luck, and he said, "Hey man, about earlier, sorry. Didn't mean nothin' by it, yeah?"

Martin nodded and accepted the paddle with quiet thanks, then turned around to face the net. "So, um, we hit the ball over the net, right? I've know that much, but er, are there any...special rules?"

Jen giggled again and shook her head. "Nope, you got it. Boundaries are where the net ends and back where our sandals are. Got it?" She flashed him a smile and lightly batted his upper arm. "And really, don't worry about whether you're good or not. It's just for fun, 'kay?"

Martin gulped and nodded again, then called over to Pete, "Er, alright, I've...um, I've been briefed on the rules. So, uh, ready whenever you are."

Pete grinned and tossed up the ball to serve. "Alright, man!"

Martin caught on quickly, and with his height, he had a bit of an advantage over his shorter opponents. They played for a while, until they were all panting and laughing, taking a break from the game to catch their breath. Martin hadn't had so much fun in ages. He told them so with a wry chuckle. "I don't get out much," he admitted.

"What, are you kidding me? With abs like that?" asked Jen. "I mean, damn, you've got a nice six-pack going on there. That's more than _these_ clowns can manage, and they're in the gym all the time," she remarked, jerking a thumb at her friends. She smiled sweetly over her shoulder and burst into another round of laughter at the looks on their faces.

Martin glanced down at his abdomen and shrugged. "Er, well, on the side I run a moving service. Um, a sort of 'man with a van' kind of thing."

"Back in England, I presume?" Mark asked, doing a poor imitation of his accent as he added, "Wouldja fancy some tea, guvnah?" He and a couple of the other boys laughed loudly. What _was_ it with Americans and their obsession with his accent, really?

Martin furrowed his brow and mumbled, "Er, yes, back in England. I'm... I'm only here for work, you see. I'm a pilot," he explained. "I fly aeroplanes. We're flying back tomorrow, actually."

Jen rolled her eyes at the other boys and muttered, "Oh, ignore them, they're idiots. You, on the other hand, seem cool." She drooped slightly when he said he was leaving the next day, and said, "Oh, well, that's okay. D'you wanna go out tonight, maybe? I know some great clubs, if you're interested." She looked up at him with a small smile, biting her lower lip slightly.

"Er, um..." Martin blushed and coughed. "Er, g-go out? With...With you, you mean?"

She laughed lightly and nodded, "Yeah, just you and me. Could be fun, you know?" She stepped a bit closer to him, curling her fingers around the edge of his hand.

Martin jerked his hand back slightly and spluttered, "Oh! Um, well, you see, I, er, um..." He took a deep breath. "That sounds lovely, but um, I can't, sorry." He let his remaining breath go in a huff. "Sorry," he repeated.

Jen took a couple steps back and her face fell a bit, but she soon brightened again and replied, "Well, that's okay." With a small smile, she added, "It was nice meeting you."

"Er, yes, um, you too. Um, right. Cheers," he said awkwardly with a small wave. As he stumbled away from the group, he knocked into a tall woman with black hair, causing her drop her phone and the drink she had been holding. He backed up and held his hands up in apology, staring at the mess on the ground. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry. I, um... I'm sorry. Uh..." He bit his lip and looked up at her.

She regarded him and an amused gaze and a small smile. She crossed her arms and replied in a soft, natural British accent, "Are you? That's lovely, dear."

Martin frowned and he looked around helplessly. "Er, is there anything I can do to, um, help?" he squeaked.

The woman narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, then asked, "Let's have dinner."

Martin frowned in confusion, and then muttered, "Er, well, I... Actually I don't have much money, honestly. I'm only here until tomorrow, then I'm flying back home, but um..."

She cut him off. "Me too. I'm going back to London tomorrow, too. Perhaps we can make the date there, hm?" She glanced down at the ground and Martin followed her stare, then bent over to pick up her phone and what was left of her drink.

He was sure his face was even redder than his hair as he mumbled, "Sorry."

She took the phone and waved her other hand as she unlocked it, breezily saying, "Oh, no matter. What's your name and number, darling? I'd quite like to see you again." She shifted her gaze from the screen to Martin's face, and again she smiled softly.

"Um, er, name, yes, my name is Martin. Um, Crieff. C-R-I-E-F-F, and um, oh! And, uh, yours?" Martin shifted his weight slightly and felt all too much like he was back in primary school, and telling his teacher his name and home phone so they could give his mum a ring.

She typed in his name and arched an eyebrow. "My name is Irene Adler. Pleased to meet you, Martin." After a brief pause, she gently prompted, "Your number?"

Martin nodded, "Oh, yes, um..." He glanced upward and then recited his mobile number, then looked back at her and nodded, "Um, yes, er, it was nice meeting you too, Ms. Adler, although um...well, anyway." She didn't seem overly cross about the collision, so he wouldn't press the issue any longer.

Irene entered the number into her phone and then lowered it, smiling. "I'll see you back in London, then, dear. I'm looking forward to our date. Ta," she said as she turned away, leaving Martin nodding and stuttering, still holding her spilt drink.

Martin called after her, "Er, yes, um, me too." He added to himself, "I suppose."

He looked down at the empty cup in his hand and looked around. Nobody was staring at him anymore, he supposed. He cringed at the thought and made a beeline to the nearest rubbish bin, then went to collect his towel and sandals. The visit to the beach, he decided, was over. Besides, he had another eleven-hour flight the next day. Eleven hours trapped with Douglas and Arthur. He'd best get some sleep.

Back at the hotel, he realised he'd left his key card in his room that afternoon, and after half an hour dealing with reception, he finally got back to his room. Again, he flopped back on the creaky bed and sighed. Oh, what a day it had been, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a (relatively) long chapter, sorry. Thanks for reading it anyway! As always, feedback is appreciated!


End file.
